


heaving lungs

by anillegiblemess



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Depression, Historical References, M/M, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anillegiblemess/pseuds/anillegiblemess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>face this onward now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heaving lungs

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if this piece doesn't make a lot of sense it's.... supposed to be that way on purpose. 
> 
> hey look at least it's nothing too personal for once

The worst part about being alone was facing the cacophonous silence surrounding one's self. Sometimes Ivan felt like he could hear bits and pieces of his old self, lost in a fog of memories too far away for him to reach. In his dreams he could touch them, however, but when he woke there was nothing left but nothing.

He would have trouble falling asleep, clutching onto the neck of the vodka bottle as if it would cure him of his violent insomnia. After waking from resting he'd stare at himself in the mirror, rating on a scale of one to ten on how bad the bags under his eyelids looked that day. He would cover them and imagine himself as a youth once more. Sometimes he would think about Alfred. Sometimes he would catch himself smiling. But it never lasted long enough to fully comprehend if his lips were truly moving or if, in his delirious stupor, he was just imagining things. 

He'd sit in his tiny dining room, staring outside the kitchen window beside him and watching the snow fall, the coffee in front of his folded hands cold and untouched. He'd light a cigarette. He would think about the weight of his people on his shoulders, cold, tired, unhappy, asking constantly for new horizons new ideas new anything. He would think about the other countries he would watch during meetings, twiddling his thumbs as they ranted about a multitude of unimportant things and fought one another. When he would try to say something his tongue would freeze and his vocal chords would stop working. He'd sit staring at Alfred who was staring at someone else. The others would watch him with wary eyes, _there he goes. He's gonna say how much he wants to kill us all he's so creepy why doesn't he go away it's obvious no one likes him what's he even doing here anymore._ As if Ivan couldn't understand English.

As Ivan shook off his thoughts, he stared at his unfinished cigarette, blowing smoke out of his nose, observing the self-inflicted burns on his knuckles; craters of browns and purples creating constellations and maps and figures too complicated for Ivan to understand. He'd find himself lost, adding to this wonderful canvas of skin by stabbing the burning end of his cigarette into his flesh and watching and waiting for something to happen but he never felt pain anymore his hands were too calloused to feel anything his brain wasn't screwed on right and as he sat there concentrating he thought about his own mentality. About how much he wanted to strangle the barking dogs outside his door, grab them by their necks and strangle them with barbed wire, squeezing real tight, silencing their heaving lungs, but not so fast, be careful now don't let them suffer. And then he'd think about Alfred, about how much he wanted to punch him, break all the bones in his body, let him feel the pain he inflicted upon Ivan. This is his fault. It was him who left the final blow on Ivan, pushing the two apart forever, now there was no going back everything was ruined done for this was it and now all that's left was to hurt him. Hurt him so good. 

And then it took a while for Ivan to realize he was crying and screaming at the top of his lungs dear God was there ever an end? _No. There is no God._

Then, he'd run. 

He'd run so far, so fast, catching up to those fleeting memories he wanted them back tracing back his youth, running back to a man that didn't care about him anymore but he wanted him so badly though he made his head ache with anger, an unknown cold to spark tension between the two it was dangerous to love a man so badly that you hated his guts and wanted to destroy him but it was okay. Everything's okay. _I'm fine, I'm just tired._ And he'd run so fast until he'd see something in the distance and he'd reach out and touch it but the only thing there was a wall. 

His fists would collide with it, pounding out dust, the bones in his fingers splintering, shattered to tiny pieces, bruised and bloodied but he was screaming so loud, _dude, what the hell is wrong with you? You're fucking insane!_ That's what he said. That's what they all said. But he'd show them that it was different. It had to be different. He was strong he was powerful. He'd kill everyone. He'd kill everyone who ever stood in his way or doubted him or oppressed him. He'd prove to them it. By God, he would!

But it was still just a wall.

His hands were nothing but limp appendages now, flesh ripped and ragged. He sank to his knees and stared blankly at his obstacle. His cigarette was still burning in his mouth. He sucked on it, blowing smoke into the air, before he let it fall from his lips. Maybe he truly was insane.

But still he waited. For Alfred, he waited.

And waited

And waited

And waited

And...

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this was kinda short; it's actually somewhat long word count wise but i bunched a lot of the sentences together to create these huge walls of paragraphs oops.


End file.
